<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>converging on thoughts that were taboo by BlackBlood1872</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368415">converging on thoughts that were taboo</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBlood1872/pseuds/BlackBlood1872'>BlackBlood1872</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Conflicted Aziraphale (Good Omens), Getting Together, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), he works through it, it's important</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:33:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>973</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368415</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBlood1872/pseuds/BlackBlood1872</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I would walk through hallowed ground for you,</em> Crowley thinks. <em>Surely you <strong>know</strong></em>.</p><p>But Aziraphale says nothing as they make their way ever closer to the bookshop.</p><p>The silence <em>grates</em>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>118</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>converging on thoughts that were taboo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title and opening quote from Fools Tongue's <a href="https://youtu.be/PIeq4ZBeL78">Angel of Chance</a>.  That's also the main and sole inspiration for this fic XD<br/>The chorus fit the church scene pretty well and then the rest just fell into place.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Love is like a dance on fire<br/>
</em> <em>it will burn you for sure<br/>
</em> <em>And love is like a dance on water<br/>
</em> <em>it will soothe the wounds</em></p><p>Angel of Chance — Fools Tongue</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The drive back to the bookshop is silent, save for the distant scream of air raid sirens. Aziraphale clutches his books close to his chest, fingers playing along the seams of the bag Crowley created to hold them. He's been quiet since the bomb dropped, thoughtful eyes moving between the books and Crowley, obviously thinking about… something. Crowley can't be sure what. Isn't sure if he wants to guess.</p><p>The last words spoken between them echo in his mind ("<em>Lift home?</em>") and he worries their tone over until it bruises, the honey softness a klaxon call. He never meant to, but those two words have bared his heart to the one being who could ruin him with but a word.</p><p><em>I would walk through hallowed ground for you</em>, Crowley thinks, knuckles white from his grip on the stirring wheel. <em>I <strong>have</strong>, and I will again. Surely you <strong>know</strong>.</em></p><p>But the angel says nothing as they make their way ever closer to his home. The silence grates.</p><p>Crowley parks by the front door to the bookshop. The Bentley turns off, smooth as a thought, and leaves them in a sort of limbo, quiet and still. The sirens have stopped, for now, and all that's left is the collectively held breath of a city in wartime.</p><p>Aziraphale places one hand on the door handle, the other still holding his bag close to his heart. He turns to Crowley. "Come inside," he requests. "Your feet must be hurting something awful."</p><p>They are. "They're fine, angel."</p><p>"Please."</p><p>Crowley looks into the full force of Aziraphale's eyes. Worry unsettles their normally smooth surface, a storm darkening the ocean; a plea that speaks louder than words. Crowley is so rarely able to resist the silent entreatments found in those eyes.</p><p>"Alright," he whispers.</p><p>Aziraphale leads him to the backroom. He has the demon out of his shoes and sat with his feet in a tray of cool water before he can formulate a coherent protest, and by then it's just not worth it. Crowley relaxes on the couch, letting his eyes drift shut.</p><p>Untold minutes later, fingers brush his shoulder, a ghost of a touch. "Wine?"</p><p>He blinks his eyes open. "Please."</p><p>Aziraphale hands him a glass. Crowley takes it, their fingers overlapping, and he allows the touch to linger. Aziraphale swallows and gently pulls away. He sits, empty handed, on the armchair adjacent the couch.</p><p>"It's dangerous," he says, both reprimand and caution. "They would destroy you."</p><p>"If they knew half of what we've done, they would execute us <em>both</em>," Crowley argues. He sets down his glass and leans forward, elbows on his knees. He softens his voice, unable to stop himself. "Angel. Why won't you let yourself have this?"</p><p>Aziraphale looks away. "You said it. I'm an <em>angel</em>. It is... so terribly selfish to <em>want</em> like this. Don't you think?"</p><p>"Is it selfish to love?" Crowley asks. "Would She say that?"</p><p>"That's different," Aziraphale protests. "Humans are built to love, to hate, to <em>live</em>. Angels... are not."</p><p>"How do you know? Have you ever asked Her?"</p><p>"You know I haven't, Crowley," he whispers. "I wouldn't dare."</p><p>"So how do you <em>know</em>?"</p><p>"It must be. It is a sin to covet, and what other than that would this be?"</p><p>Crowley silently gestures towards the main floor of the bookshop and the tomes Aziraphale has accumulated and hoarded over the years. The angel purses his lips. "That's different."</p><p>"<em>How</em>? Explain it to me, angel, because I don't understand how you can <em>covet</em> books and <em>things</em> and not—"</p><p>"<em>Because</em> they're things!" Aziraphale finally raises his voice, points of color appearing on his cheeks. "They're <em>inanimate</em>, they're—I can pour all the love I wish upon them and they'll never return it, they'll never ask for more or less than I can give or make me want to—to do something I shouldn't." He trials off, staring down at his hands and the tight tangle of his fingers. His joints ache, and isn't that a novel experience? He doesn't care for it.</p><p>Crowley reaches for him, carefully separating his hands. He rubs at his knuckles and the ache fades away.</p><p>"What do you expect to happen? If you allowed yourself to have what you want?"</p><p>"I already—"</p><p>"Not their response. Pretend, for a moment, that we're competent enough to hide this from them, as we have everything else. What would happen?" Crowley looks up and catches Aziraphale's gaze, his eyes focused and searing. "What are you afraid of?"</p><p><em>So much</em>, Aziraphale doesn't say. He doesn't have a well worded response lined up, nothing more than the soul deep ache, the fear that trembles through him at the thought of reaching out and grasping only smoke.</p><p>"I don't want to lose you," he whispers, seconds and eons later. "I don't want to risk taking too much, only for it to be snatched away."</p><p>"That won't happen."</p><p>"You can't know that."</p><p>"I would fight Heaven and Hell to stay with you," Crowley declares, voice soft and serious and all the more fierce for it. "I would walk through hallowed ground, if that's what it takes."</p><p>
  <em>I already have.</em>
</p><p>Aziraphale lets out a shaking breath, eyes falling closed. A heartbeat passes; two. Then he turns the hand in Crowley's loose grip, and threads their fingers together.</p><p>"<em>‘Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all’</em>," he recites softly.</p><p>"You won't lose me," Crowley promises. The angel squeezes his hand, a silent expression of the emotions he can't articulate. Automatic denial, apprehension, the burgeoning blooms of hope.</p><p>Crowley squeezes back, and it feels like the dawn of a new day.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>